


Valentine & Vimes: The Measure of a Synth

by Aleaiactaest, Slyjinks



Series: Valentine & Vimes [8]
Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett, Fallout 4
Genre: Adoption, Adult Adoption, Gen, conservative religious nonsense, personhood on trial
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:47:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27655712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aleaiactaest/pseuds/Aleaiactaest, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slyjinks/pseuds/Slyjinks
Summary: Back when the “Aftermath” Icono-game was still dragging people and things from the fiction of the Commonwealth to the reality of Ankh-Morpork, a group of standard model Gen 2 synths encountered a group of trolls, and the trolls learned that synths, with all their metal and silicon and other non-organic components, were delicious. One escaped into the city, and now a family is trying to adopt him. Unfortunately, most adoptions around the city are run by the various religions, and the clerk at the temple of Io has made his view clear: the synth is an abomination, not a person. This means that it’s up to the city to decide whether the synth is person enough to be adopted, which means it’s up to Lord Vetinari.
Series: Valentine & Vimes [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1689076
Comments: 14
Kudos: 9





	1. Summons * Finding I7-49 * Mind of His Own

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Under a year ago, a magic accident made Sam Vimes the Sole Survivor in a simulation/game running on Hex. He believed what he experienced to be real, and his realness and belief brought a measure of realness to those characters he interacted with most. In the year-plus of in-game time, believing himself to be a widow, he fell in love with Nick Valentine. When he was brought home, the game characters who had been made real were brought with him. Eventually Sam, Nick (who had joined the Watch), and Sybil worked things out between them. In the end, the Vimes family adopted the synth duplicate of Young Sam (now renamed Shaun) and Sam Vimes took a husband in addition to his wife. Meanwhile, DiMA stuck around Unseen University to better understand the nature of this new reality, and eventually became an official student; Piper and Nat joined the Ankh-Morpork Times staff; Deacon went to work for the Golem Trust (though currently he’s been sent to Ephebe); Codsworth went to work for the Vimes family; Strong joined the Watch; Preston became a guard for the Grand Trunk clacks network; Old Longfellow ran off to Fourecks to run banana wine carts across their wilds; and who even knows what Hancock is up to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **We’ve created a Discord server for chatting about Discworld, Fallout, or this fic. Feel free to join us at<https://discord.gg/6QM4Egy>**

_Summons * Finding I7-49 * Mind of His Own_

Valentine didn’t eat, but he still enjoyed the company of his family over breakfast when he had the time, and he could still enjoy the warmth and smell and taste of a hot coffee while enjoying his family’s company.

He could still enjoy the idea of having a family.

It was Sunday, the first day of the weekend for Shaun and young Sam, who also had Octeday off. Most adults were lucky if they got even one day off in a week, and with as many religions as there were in Ankh-Morpork, there was no single “holy day”, but the pricey “learn through play” school the boys attended allowed a whole _two_ days off a week. Now, Valentine himself didn’t often have Sunday morning off, but that made it all the more special when he did.

The boys were already seated at the table, eating their muesli and arguing about why it was okay to eat yogurt, which was basically milk gone bad, but it wasn’t okay to eat moldy cheese unless it was expensive moldy cheese from Lancre, when Valentine entered the breakfast room. “Good morning, Dad!” greeted Shaun. Young Sam swallowed before echoing him.

Before Valentine could reply, Codsworth floated towards him. “Your coffee, sir. Oh, and I took the liberty of fetching your mail for you,” the robot said, setting the coffee, mail, and the morning newspaper in front of him. Valentine was always fairly impressed with Codsworth’s ability to handle all three in his one hand.

“Thank you, Codsworth,” Nick answered, picking up his cup and taking a deep breath of the aroma. He looked over at the others. “So what’re you boys up to today?”

“I’ve got to get my velocipede back together, but then we were going to bike on down to New Ankh,” Shaun started.

“Then we’re gonna watch the trains!” added young Sam, grinning. “Want to come with us?”

“Think I just might,” Valentine grinned back, even if he felt a bit ridiculous on a bicycle. He looked down at the letter that was addressed to him and frowned. Unlike a lot of the mail circulating around Ankh-Morpork, this one had a return address: the palace.

“Nick!” shouted Vimes as he rushed into the room, his own copy of the Ankh-Morpork Times in hand. He was cleanly shaven, but a small nick on his right cheek suggested he’d received news he didn’t like while Willikins had been reading him the paper. “Nick, have you seen the paper?”

Valentine assumed it wasn’t another questionable “political” cartoon involving himself, since Vimes typically tried to hide those, so he just shook his head. “Afraid not, sweetheart. I’m just getting settled in myself.” He glanced down at the paper… nothing obvious on the first page. “What’s the story?” he asked, starting to flip through the pages.

“They’re putting that poor sod to court!” Vimes complained, opening to the story in question. “All they wanted to do is adopt him, and their Io parish clerk called him an ‘abomination’ and wouldn’t sign the papers, so now they’ve got to go to court just to prove that poor lad’s person enough to even be adopted!”

“Sam, sweetheart, slow down,” protested Valentine, exasperated as he tried to look at the article Vimes was gesturing out. “ _Who_ are they taking to court?” Then he finally found what Vimes had been talking about. “Oh. I7-49.”

Vimes nodded. “Right. The synth that got away from the trolls. The, erm, dumber kind. The Bagstocks call him ‘Ivan’.”

“There’s another synth in the city?” Shaun asked with interest, watching his dad and his father intently.

“A standard model G2, Shaun,” Valentine explained, opening the letter that had caught his attention earlier. “A group of them had popped up over near Clay when the, er, ‘incursions’ were still happening. Unfortunately they ran into a bunch of trolls who figured out that unlike humans, _we’re_ edible.” He scowled at the memory. “Only one of them got away.”

“Oh,” answered Shaun as he turned that over in his head. “I mean. That’s kind of a waste, but… the regular G2s, they’re not really people, anyway.”

“What?!” exclaimed Vimes, turning towards Shaun.

“That’s what they’re trying to sort out,” Valentine sighed and dropped his letter on the table. “And it looks like I’ve been called in as an ‘expert witness’.”

* * *

_Some months ago…_

> In the midst of one emergency after another, it had been hard to find the time to track down that escaped G2 synth, but in a way that was a good thing. It meant that the escaped G2 synth hadn’t itself caused yet another emergency of the sort that would make tracking it a priority. 
> 
> Once Valentine and Flavours had the time, though, tracing its path wasn’t too difficult. There was some trouble in figuring out the right questions to ask, since the people of Ankh-Morpork were often very good at seeing only what they expected to see, and occasionally what they expected to see of a synth in a Watch uniform didn’t always match what they expected to see of a synth in better repair wearing an Institute jumper. Valentine couldn’t always just say, “Looks kind of like me, only less busted up,” because some folks saw Valentine as a zombie but had seen the other synth as a smaller golem. 
> 
> Still, with enough trial and error as Valentine sorted out just how each witness had perceived the synth, he was able to trace its path from Clay to the Pitts, across Elm to Paradise, hubwards on Bleak and then over to Shamlegger where a pair of Guild thieves told him about a synth that’d had a run in with a mugger. Here Valentine let himself get distracted by the witnesses themselves. One was a large, particularly craggy female troll calling herself Pumice, but the human, Razor, had a Commonwealth accent, and had not only correctly identified the fleeing synth as such, but recognized Valentine for what he was. Valentine narrowed his optics at her.
> 
> “You’re a raider,” he observed with distaste.
> 
> “Not any more, man,” argued Razor. “The rest of my crew got wiped out a little no- er, hubwards of here. Buncha morons. I was the only one that figured out how to adapt.” She shrugged. “You join the Guild, you get protection, you get a nice bounty any time you drag an unlicensed thief in, and that thief don’t have to be in top condition, if you catch my meaning.” She grinned, showing her broken teeth.
> 
> “Thieves’ Guild members aren’t supposed to seriously hurt their marks,” Artificial Flavours reminded, peering at Razor from Valentine’s shoulder.
> 
> “Get to mark up unlicensed fieves plenty good, dough,” Pumice rumbled.
> 
> “Yeah,” agreed Razor. “Turns out, the day your boy came through was a good day for us. That mugger wasn’t licensed, so when he tried to go after that synth, we got him.”
> 
> “And you just let the synth run off?” asked Valentine.
> 
> Razor shrugged. “Hey, as long as he ain’t stripping down the city for parts, he ain’t my problem. Hell, even if he is stripping the place down, he ain’t my problem. Anyway, last I saw, he was high-tailing it down Pinny Ninny.”
> 
> And so Valentine and Artificial Flavours headed down Pinny Ninny. Flavours sighed. “We’re going to have to include that ‘Razor’ in a report, aren’t we?” the rat asked.
> 
> Valentine nodded. “Afraid so, but at least she doesn’t seem to be a particularly new arrival. Luckily, since she’s with the Thieves’ Guild now, if we need to track her down again it should be easy enough.”
> 
> They briefly lost the trail on Pinny Ninny until Valentine happened to glance down Monkey Street and saw it: a generation two synth outside of a small shop, sweeping the entry way clean. Valentine approached cautiously, but the synth looked unarmed. It was wearing its Institute jumper, although the jumper had the look of having been hand-washed recently, and it was adorned with an assortment of pins with sayings clearly intended to be humorous, such as one with a kitten hanging from a branch that said, “Hang in there, baby, Octeday’s coming”; a coffee cup labeled, “More espresso, less depresso”; and one with the Ankh-Morpork shield labeled “From hippo to hip!”
> 
> He looked up as Valentine and Artificial Flavours approached, gave them a brief blink-and-you’ll-miss-it customer-service smile, and said in the strange, robotic voice of the G2s, “Greetings! Welcome to Pier Seven-Plus-One Imports! I have access to a wide array of furniture and ‘nik-naks’ approved for use in all home decoration endeavors. How may I assist you?”
> 
> Valentine and Flavours looked at each other. “Well, he… doesn’t seem to be on a rampage of any kind,” Flavours observed.
> 
> “I suppose without the Institute directing them, they’re less likely to go off the rails?” Valentine observed, thoughtfully. He was still a little unnerved by the idea of just leaving a non-prototype generation 2 synth loose in Ankh-Morpork, but after speaking with the family who owned the shop, the Bagstocks, he learned that I7-49 had been working there without incident since it had arrived, and that the Bagstocks were quite content to keep it around. Eventually, Valentine just asked them that if I7-49 started behaving oddly - for it - that they report it to the Watch, and left things at that.

* * *

Valentine and Vimes sat on the floor in the Medium Spring Green Play Room, helping Shaun and Young Sam put together a train set. It was a perfectly ordinary model train set, the sort that you had to push along the track yourself. It wasn’t mechanical; it didn’t move itself along the track. Not yet, at least. Valentine suspected, from the way Shaun was studying several of the carts, that this wouldn’t stay the case for long.

“Sirs?” Codsworth floated in, leading Nick’s brother. “Mister DiMA is here to speak with his brother. I hope you don’t mind that I showed him in. After all, he is family.” Vimes’s expression looked part the grin of a predator, part a cringe, as Codsworth reminded them that DiMA was now his brother-in-law. He’d gotten a lot better at dealing with DiMA of late. By this point, the only real problem Vimes seemed to have with DiMA’s visits was that his presence appeared to encourage Young Sam’s interest in magic.

“Uncle DiMA!” Young Sam, however, had no trouble accepting DiMA as family at all. He picked up the model train’s “engine” and ran over to show it to DiMA. “We’re making train tracks!”

Shaun remained where he was, carefully laying down the tracks so that they lined up together perfectly. “I want to find a way to make it go. Maybe clockwork?”

“Trains use steam!” Young Sam pointed out, as though it were absurd to consider any alternative for a miniature version.

Shaun frowned thoughtfully as he studied one of the other carts. “A big one, sure, but this one’s kinda small. The engine’d have to be so small that the coal might clog it up, and it’s too tiny for anyone to shovel coal on, anyway…”

“We can ask Buggy!” Young Sam suggested.

Vimes squeezed the bridge of his nose and sighed. “I think Swires might have other things to do.”

“Maybe a clockwork person to shovel the coal?” Shaun said, still thinking out loud. Give the boy a little train and he quickly began thinking about making little people for it. Shaun certainly was an Institute boy.

DiMA examined the train that Young Sam had handed him, although he was clearly listening with interest as Shaun discussed building clockwork people. He finally handed the engine back to Young Sam. “That is a very nice train. I’m certain that you and your brother will come up with an appropriate way to motorize it.”

Vimes glared tiredly at DiMA for a moment, taking his words as encouragement to the boys’ desire to build clockwork people. When Vimes spoke, though, his tone was casual enough.“Anything we can help you with, DiMA, or is this a social visit?” 

DiMA remained standing. “Actually, I came by to ask Nick if he, too, has received a court summons.”

“ _This_ business,” Nick sighed, exasperated. “Yeah, I got it.” He shook his head. “I guess I can see their reasoning in calling on us, on account of you and me being the only other Gen 2 synths they know about. A lot of these guys aren’t in a position to understand there’s a difference between us prototypes and a standard model. Despite that, I wouldn’t exactly call myself an expert on them. I don’t think I remember running into regular Gen 2s more than once or twice before I met Sam.”

“In the most literal sense, you had _never_ encountered them before meeting Sam,” observed DiMA, who was always frustratingly quick to remind Valentine that the history he remembered hadn’t really happened, “but even in the sense of backstory, you are correct. I’m not certain I _ever_ encountered them, even as backstory. From all I can remember of the Institute, we were kept separate, and thankfully, the Institute had never made its way to the Island.” DiMA tilted his head a moment as he seemed to consider something. “Ironically, of those who have made it out of the simulation, the one whose backstory would have granted the most opportunity for encounter and observation of standard Gen 2 synths would be neither of us prototypes.”

Valentine thought for a moment. “Deacon,” he concluded. DiMA nodded. “It was mostly Gen 2s that chased the Railroad out of their old headquarters, and he’s probably got memories of other encounters with them mixed up in that head of his.”

“Deacon?” Vimes frowned. “The same Deacon who just happens to be on the opposite side of the Circle Sea right now? On orders from the Patrician, of course.”

“It is an… interesting coincidence,” DiMA observed circumspectly, “but not what I’m here to talk to you about.”

It registered on Valentine that the boys had gotten awfully quiet. He glanced at them, and noticed that Shaun was doing a very poor job of hiding just how much attention he was paying to the conversation. He ruffled Shaun’s hair, then stood up. “All right, then. But maybe we should take this elsewhere.” He grinned down at the children and suggested, “Try not to set anything on fire trying to power up those trains, huh?”

“I won’t,” Shaun promised.

“Yeah, all the dragons that still flame’re outside,” Young Sam agreed, as if that were the only thing preventing him from setting the room on fire.

“I assure you that I will only use my flamethrower with the utmost caution,” Codsworth agreed. 

Vimes accepted that easily enough - the man was way too casual about lighting things up sometimes - but Valentine sighed. “Try… not to use the flamethrower at all, Codsworth?”

“I will endeavor to avoid using it, sir!” Codsworth agreed, bobbing a bit in place.

The two synths and a man left the Medium Spring Green Play Room and moved to the Light Steel Blue Thinking Room. The Light Steel Blue Thinking Room was one of the smaller rooms in the house, little used, but close enough to the more heavily trafficked areas that it was still kept spotless. 

“So what _are_ you here to talk to me about?” Valentine asked.

DiMA hesitated a moment, as though assembling his thoughts. “I wanted to inquire as to your thoughts on the matter, brother. We’re being asked for our opinions on the personhood of standard, non-prototype Generation 2 synths in general, and on…” he paused, as though trying to work out in his head what the appropriate form address even was, “on Ivan’s in particular.”

“What’s there to say?” Valentine shrugged. “First time I ever saw a synth with a face like mine and a mind of his own was when I met you.”

“What?!” exclaimed Vimes, taken aback by Valentine’s words, though he’d heard a variation of them before.

Valentine thought back. Sure, Sam would have heard one of the first things Nick had said when they’d met DiMA, and yeah, Sam himself had once described Gen 2s as ‘poor, stupid things,’ but even that was in the context of screaming furiously at Kellogg for sending them to die by Sam’s hand. Vimes had seemed to think they were people. Stupid people, but still people. Valentine held his hands up as if to placate Vimes. “Sorry, Sam, but as far as I understand things, DiMA and I were the only Gen 2’s that could think on our own! The rest really were just, well, tools.”

Vimes sighed and shook his head. “The start of evil’s when you’re treating people like things, but every now and again you gotta be careful for things that start becoming people. The golems are tools, even they’ll tell you that, but they’re not _just_ tools, and when tools’re people, you gotta treat them like it. Those poor Gen 2 sods were simple, sure, but so’re plenty of people in Ankh-Morpork.” He turned towards DiMA and demanded, “And what’re _you_ planning on telling the Patrician?”

DiMA pressed his finger tips together as he thought, and then answered Vimes, reluctantly, “That in the general case, I agree with Nick. That if the Commonwealth had been a real place with a real Institute, that real Gen 2s would not have been capable of independent thought.” Vimes looked absolutely gobsmacked, but before he could respond, DiMA continued. “But also that the general case is irrelevant here.” DiMA turned towards Valentine. “Have you spoken to Ivan yet?”

“A bit,” Valentine shrugged. “Just enough to make sure he wasn’t gonna cause any problems.”

“You should speak to him longer,” DiMA suggested. “The rules of how it would be if the Commonwealth were a real place with a real Institute and real Gen 2s don’t apply here, brother, because Ivan was generated by the game and exists here. In Ankh-Morpork. Like all things generated by the game, he was influenced by the Commander’s instance, because it was the Commander’s instance that allowed game constructs to become real. In fact, Ivan appears to have come directly from that instance. And like all things that exist in Ankh-Morpork, Ivan is subject to the rules of this world, not the Commonwealth.”

“What makes you so sure that he’s from our instance?” Vimes asked, frowning.

DiMA turned towards Vimes and tilted his head. “Do you know why Pier Seven-Plus-One imports is now open 22 hours a day?”

Vimes shook his head. “No, but I expect you’re going to tell me.”

DiMA smiled faintly, and gave a very slight nod. “It is because Ivan, when the Bagstocks asked him to run the shop, insisted on a 22 hour work day. The Bagstocks didn’t understand why he wanted that, specifically, but agreed to it in order to, and I quote, ‘make him happy.’”

Valentine mulled that over, frowning. “Why 22 hours? That’s such a specific…” Then his optics widened and, for a moment, brightened. “Those Gen 2s at the barricade!”

DiMA inclined his head towards Valentine. “I have researched the matter with Hex. Apparently, there is some sort of… narrative necessity that if there is a revolution that the Commander is involved in, there must be barricades. When Deacon started organizing the Gen 3s in the Institute, he turned the Minutemen’s invasion into a revolution, and so those specific Gen 2 synths evolved to fill a necessary narrative role.”

“Look,” Valentine sighed, rolling his optics, “even if I were inclined to agree with this ‘narrative necessity’ business, if they were real in our instance, they’d have appeared in the circle with the rest of us.”

“Agreed,” answered DiMA. “They were not yet real. What was important is that they were given the potential to _become_ real, much like, say, Tektus or Mayor Hancock had been. As long as they had that potential when they were given form, the rules of this world take over, and one of the rules of this world is that form shapes reality. Just as Tektus was Tektus-shaped and Hancock is Hancock-shaped, Ivan is people-shaped.”

"Yeah, but so are puppets,” Valentine pointed out, “but that doesn’t automatically make one a ‘real boy’.”

DiMA gave a small, weak smile. “Not automatically, but I wouldn’t discount the effect their form has on them, either. Still, there is a simple way to address the specific question of Ivan: you should go speak with him, brother.”

* * *

_Some months ago..._

> Not long after Nick Valentine found I7-49 for the first time, DiMA had paid I7-49 a visit. He felt obligated. His friends, student wizards, had inadvertently caused _Aftermath_ icono-game elements to manifest in Ankh-Morpork, and that was in part DiMA’s fault. When the scorchbeast had been summoned, people had died. DiMA knew the lore of the standard Gen 2s, that they’d kill anything that got in their way, even cats, that they’d strip cities. If I7-49 was a danger to Ankh-Morpork, DiMA had a duty to nullify that danger.
> 
> He’d contemplated tracing I7-49 down with magic, but doing something with magic wasn’t any easier than just doing something the old-fashioned way, and while DiMA didn’t know the old-fashioned way of tracking down a man, he knew that Nick did, and he knew that Nick would. So he’d waited for Nick to find I7-49, and then he’d paid I7-49 a visit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **S** : I wanted to point out that we have added art by the wonderful [Jerkyvulture](https://jerkyvulture.tumblr.com/) to [Chapter 15 of “Welcome Home”](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24868351/chapters/62980357), if you’d like to go check that out!
> 
>  **S:** It might strike some people as odd that neither Nick nor DiMA seem to think “real” non-prototype Gen 2s (as in, ones not influenced by the weird rules of the Disc) would be sapient. For me, I couldn’t interpret Nick’s angry, “Only one synth I know with a face like mine and a mind of his own,” line when he first meets DiMA any way besides that he just flat had never even considered other Gen 2s as people. Originally, DiMA was going to be the moderating voice to propose that just because non-prototype Gen 2s are simpler doesn’t mean they can’t be simpler _people_ , but a deeper look at his dialogue makes it pretty clear that he believed he and Nick were the only Gen 2s capable of “independent thought” (his phrasing) as well.
> 
> The only in-game Companion that appears to be even willing to entertain the _possibility_ that they _might_ be sapient is Deacon (“I'm alright if we have to take out the Gen 1s and 2s. Barely, but alright.” “So, obviously I'm not going to risk my life for a... radio. But a Gen 1? Or Gen 2? Where to draw the line, huh?”). This is mostly interesting because, outside of X6-88 (who doesn’t even think _he’s_ a person) he’s also the Companion who would have had the most exposure to Gen 2s (something Nick and DiMA bring up). For the purposes of our series, the events during the invasion of the Institute were enough to push him from on the fence over to the side of, “Okay, yeah, they’re probably people. Really, really strange people.” (Sam just assumed they were people all along; he even yelled at Kellogg about using them as disposable troops.)
> 
> For the record, _I_ think they’re probably people in the game universe. The Fallout universe is _lousy_ with accidentally created mechanical sapience, anyway (heck, plenty of their robots are mentioned to have limiters specifically to prevent the development of actual personhood), and Gen 2 synths are the _only_ robot-types that can be affected by any kind of intimidation perk, meaning you can spook them into standing down or even switching sides, which is enough evidence for my purposes!
> 
>  **We love comments of all lengths, and understand the need for low-energy commenting like kudos. If you ever find yourself wanting to give us additional kudos, feel free to leave a comment of an icon or emoji of a heart!** <3


	2. Thunderbolt * Chrysoprase * Decorating Missions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **We’ve created a Discord server for chatting about Discworld, Fallout, or this fic. Feel free to join us at<https://discord.gg/6QM4Egy>**

_Thunderbolt * Chrysoprase * Decorating Missions_

It was early evening, and Valentine had just arrived back home at Scoone Avenue from work, still thinking about what his brother had advised him to do the night before. He was doing a quick check of the property’s traps when suddenly his well-honed instinct had him throwing himself to the ground, just in time to avoid taking a fairly good sized chunk of rock to the head. He reached for his crossbow as he looked around for his assailant, then he groaned as he spotted her: a troll woman with a banded texture and a flowing, multi-layered dress. This one looked a step up from the usual garb she wore while singing at the Octarine Parrot.

“Gneiss!” Valentine shouted, moving cautiously into a crouch. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m flattered, but I’m also married!”

“Can’t blame a girl for trying,” Gneiss answered, hand on her hip as she looked around, possibly for a second rock.

“I can when her idea of flirting fits most people’s idea of ‘assault’,” Valentine replied, straightening up to his full height.

“Hmph. Fought you coppers was all trained up on ‘cultural sensitivity’ dese days,” complained Gneiss.

Valentine crossed his arms. “You’ll have to forgive me, but my whole body is a bit too sensitive for troll romance, so if that’s what you came by for…”

Gneiss shook her head and handed Valentine a sealed envelope. “Dat just bonus. Gneiss here to give you invitation to Cavern Club. Swanky place. Gneiss singing dere dese days.”

Valentine stiffened. The Cavern Club was probably the most upscale club in Ankh-Morpork that didn’t put restrictions on the clientele beyond the need to afford the cover and drinks, although it’s popularity among trolls tended to scare off the faint of heart. That wasn’t the part that bothered Valentine, however.

“The Cavern Club’s Chrysoprase’s place,” he observed coolly.

“Dat right,” Gneiss agreed. “Mister Chrysoprase wants to have a chat, all friendly like.” She shrugged. “Wants it enough he gonna let me sing just for bringing de message.”

Valentine opened the envelope and scowled as he looked over the details in it. “Doesn’t he already have plenty of trolls ready to fall all over each other delivering his message.”

“Told you, it friendly chat,” Gneiss argued. “Dat why he send me: Gneiss is a nice lady.”

“When you’re not throwing rocks at people, right?” Valentine smirked with a brow-ridge raised.

“Dat when Gneiss is nicest,” Gneiss smiled back, her teeth glittering. 

* * *

The next morning, it was time to see the lawyer representing the Bagstock’s position. Thunderbolt was large, though he wasn’t particularly large by troll standards, but he knew how to take up a room, and he knew how to take up a conversation. His voice put Valentine in mind of the chocolate lava cakes they served at Thank Gods It’s Open, not that he ate, but he’d seen them eaten, and there was that way the cake glided onto the spoon.

“..so of course you’re going to say that Mr. Ivan is indubitably a person, endowed with rights by his creator, whomever that may be, inquiries are proceeding…” Thunderbolt rumbled.

Valentine broke in, “Look, I’m supposed to be an expert, right?” An expert on what, exactly, was foggy. Apparently, an expert on being a damn android. “So why are you telling me what I’m going to say?”

Thunderbolt blinked slowly, like a glacier. “I believe you misunderstand the situation, Mr. Valentine-Vimes. Of course I’m going to tell you what to say. No one would expect you to be able to compose an argument - you haven’t studied at the Inns of Court, you haven’t been called to the bar -”

“All the time, on drunk and disorderlies,” Valentine said flippantly.

“ - there is a definite distinction, insofar as that turn of phrase doesn’t apply as you are humorously using it - you’ve never devilled, why, of course you’re not expected to know what to say,” said Thunderbolt, looking over his case notes. “No, I expect you to say that - ”

“So what’s the point of having me here at all?’ asked Valentine, increasingly annoyed but also morbidly curious about how Thunderbolt’s discussion with his brother was going to go. 

Thunderbolt replied patronizingly, “Authenticity. A good argument sounds better coming from an ‘expert’. Now, if you’re quite done being obstinate - ”

“No. I’m not. Done being obstinate, that is. Mr. Thunderbolt, I don’t care if God almighty Himself wrote that argument. I’m not spouting it off for you. I’m going to get up there and say the truth as I know it,” said Valentine firmly.

Thunderbolt favoured him with a look of mild horror. “My word, Mr. Valentine-Vimes. Aren’t you just like a loaded crossbow on the mantle on an unseasonably humid day? Which is to say: you’re about to go off half-cocked.”

“Last I checked, perjury was a crime,” Valentine snapped.

Thunderbolt’s gaze turned pitying. “Playing the so-called honest policeman, are we? Now Mr. Valentine-Vimes, I wouldn’t dream of asking you to lie, in fact, diamond trolls cannot lie - ”

“Says you?” said Valentine, rolling his optics up to look at the ceiling.

“ _Heh_ ,” said Thunderbolt, deflecting and reflecting like a diamond. “I’m just asking you to present a better argument that suits all our mutual purposes. Is that so hard?”

“And I’m saying you haven’t even heard what my opinion is! You’re just convinced that your grand monologue’s better because you’ve studied a bunch of law books written by zombies!” Valentine complained, pushing his shoulders back and up.

“And I am explaining, very patiently, that is, in fact, how it works,” said Thunderbolt, folding his hands.

“And I’m saying you can listen to what I have to say and tell me where the holes and traps are, or you can keep yammering, and then I’ll get up there and say what I’m going to say, only you won’t have had a chance to review it,” Valentine demanded.

Thunderbolt said, oddly quietly for a troll, “You are a terrorist, Mr. Valentine-Vimes.”

Valentine snorted. “Wait until you meet my brother.”

* * *

After morning with the lawyer, it was time for lunch with the mob. Valentine didn’t like admitting it, not even to himself, but he was actually looking forward to the meeting. Though it was usually out of his price range, he enjoyed the Cavern Club, a high-class joint with just enough of a hint of danger that it would get his coolant pumping, if the place wasn’t usually kept in a cooler temperature zone than most the city, a careful balancing act to keep it warm enough not to chase off organic clients, but cool enough to let trolls think a bit clearer. It also had the best jazz bands that could be found in Ankh-Morpork, and walking into a smokey jazz joint to have a clandestine meeting with a shady mob boss had a sort of... narrative rightness that set his circuits buzzing.

He wore one of his nicer suits, one of the ones Sybil had made for him that were in his style, but new and clean and sharp enough to wear when he accompanied her to the opera or the Dysc. His mind went on the alert as he entered, double-checking the escape routes he had noticed during previous visits. Chrysoprase had a table out of the way enough that they could be reasonably assured of a private conversation but visible enough that he was less likely to try anything too blatant. This was no clandestine meeting at an out of the way warehouse; Chrysoprase was at least putting on a show of playing the honest, well-intentioned troll.

Valentine strode up to Chrysoprase’s table like he belonged there. Of course, he did, didn’t he? He had been invited. Chrysoprase saw him approach and beamed, that 100 watt troll diamond smile, and gestured to the seat in front of him. “If it inn’t Mister Valentine-Vimes! I’m finkin’ even your husband, unbending and unflinching as he is, I’m finkin’ even he’d have bought dat Sergeant Detritus along, and here you is, all by your lonesome?” Two trolls standing near Chrysoprase’s table moved towards Valentine, and one started to say something about searching for weapons, but Chrysoprase waved them off. “Boys! Dere no need for none of dat, now. We is just here for a bit of friendly talking, some… silly-cone solidarity, you could say.” He sighed and shook his head. “Sometimes I am despairin’ of de young trolls today. No respec’ at all.”

Valentine eyed the other trolls warily, but as they backed down, he took the seat that Chrysoprase gestured to. Valentine found himself glancing at the drink list, and Chrysoprase encouraged, “You order what you want, Mister Valentine, and it is in de… walls for living… house. You are a guest, after all.”

Valentine narrowed his optics. Of course, he knew about Chrysoprase’s affected good-old-troll speech patterns, and he had been working with trolls for long enough to understand that the warmth of Ankh-Morpork made them slow, but slow wasn’t the same as stupid, and Chrysoprase… Chrysoprase wasn’t near as slow as he pretended. “I can buy my own drinks, Chrysoprase,” he answered coolly. Not too many, of course, and he’d have to stay away from the troll side of the menu if he didn’t want to corrode his internals, but even without touching his husband’s bank account, he didn’t have to pay rent or buy food. He could afford a few drinks.

“Now, what’s all this about?” Valentine asked.

“It is like I was saying, is silly-cone solidarity,” Chrysoprase answered. “I was finkin’ it was maybe long past time I got to know one of de few odder non-troll non-organics who’s been takin’ up residents in our fine city.”

Valentine looked over the menu. He was fairly certain that the drink listed as a “Fritzjeromy” was what he knew as a Fitzgerald, so he went ahead and ordered it. “Right,” he answered the troll. “And I’m sure it’s got nothing to do with the hearing that the Patrician’s having to determine if I7-49 is a person.” He looked up at Chrysoprase and narrowed his optics again. “Because, of course, if I7 and his pals are people, that means Big Marble and the other trolls that attacked him and ate the others are in for murder, not just possession, and rumor has it, that little gang’s far enough on your bad side that you wouldn’t mind seeing them put away for a bit longer.”

Chrysoprase waved his hand absently. “So maybe dere is a few side benefits. But it is not just personal. I’m finking it is maybe not so good for trolls if de city decides to go an’ narrow de range of inorganics dey is calling people. See, dis city, for many years now, it is always makin’ de definition of peoples wider and wider. First it is just humans and what undead used to be humans or are looking a lot like humans, den slowly it is oder organics, like dem dwarfs what look like short, bearded humans, for a long time dey let us trolls in, but only so’s we can carry heavy dings or maybe hit folks dey don’t like wit’ heavy dings, but eventually, we is peoples too. Den even inorganics what got made from clay and whatnot get to be peoples, always wider and wider. But now… well, I’m dinking maybe if dey say dat strange Ivan boy what got made in de game is not a person, dat puts dings in reverse.”

“If dat happen, what about de oder non-organics made in de game?” Chrysoprase continued. “Like you, or your dear brodder what is learnin’ so studiously at de university? What about all de oder folks made in dat game, who was not born but dreamed into life, like your liddle boy Shaun?”

Valentine narrowed his optics. “That, erm, wouldn’t be a threat, would it?”

Chrysoprase opened his eyes wide in shock that Valentine was fairly certain was feigned. “I would not dink to raise a finger against you or dat fine family of yours! I have much respec’ not just for dat husband as yours, honest-as-anything-Vimes, but for you as well! But I am finking dat makin’ de… def… definishion of people to be smaller and not bigger, dat is a threat to all of us what took longer to be peoples to begin wit’.”

The troll waved his right hand in a manner that might have been called airily had he not been made of stone. “Yes, it is true what you say, dat I am not fond of de Big Marble kid, and I would not mind him not being on de street a little longer. But dat is really only a small matter. If I am not wanting to see him around…” He shrugged. “I do not have to see him around.”

Valentine’s optics snapped to Chrysoprase’s face, trying to determine if the troll were really just casually suggesting that he’d have the kid killed if he really wanted to. Of course, that was exactly what was happening, but as vague as he was being, Nick doubted it would even count as evidence if the younger troll went missing.

Chrysoprase, however, didn’t give any notice to Valentine’s sudden attention. “So dat is a matter, but it is a small matter. De bigger matter is dat as a community leader, I am having concerns that if de little rubber and metal and silly-cone man isn’t considered a person, maybe next de humans will be looking at oder folks to not be people, like dem clay men what got dem words in deir head, or men of rock and silly-cone instead of rubber and metal and silly-cone. Dere’s plenty of humans who wouldn’t mind seeing less people among de people of dis fine city, if you catch my… pile of sand… drift.”

Valentine sighed and looked down at his newly arrived drink. As much as he hated it, Chrysoprase had a point. The problem was, though, that Valentine wasn’t really sure that standard Gen 2 synths _were_ people. They’d come into an area and pick it clean, more like a vicious storm than anything with a mind. Go to a settlement after they’d been through and everything that the Institute couldn’t use, right down to the damned pets, were wiped out. Why go out of your way to shoot a cat if you were able to stop and think things over?

Granted, none of that was real. It was a story, and here was the story of a non-prototype Gen 2 synth given form. Could I7 be a real person if it was made from a non-person’s story? But if I7 was just a mindless killing machine, would it be meekly running a shop over on Monkey Street? 

“Look, Chrysoprase. You’ve given me some food for thought,” Valentine took a sip of his drink, “but when they call me onto that stand, I’ve got to give my honest opinion.” Whatever it might be. “So while I appreciate this little chat,” at least the music and the drinks were good, “this is something I’m just going to have to sort out for myself.”

Chrysoprase chuckled. “It was surprising, finding out ol’ Vimes had taken up wit you, but I guess if he was taking up with a gentlemen, you make as much sense as anyone. Straight as an arrow, only not dat way,” and the troll winked. “But still, honest as anything, yeah? Just like Vimes hisself.” He smiled. “It okay. I am sure you will be wanting to do the right ding. Just like Vimes hisself, hmm?”

* * *

Morning was spent with Thunderbolt, lunch with Chrysoprase, and now it was finally time to take DiMA’s advice and have a real talk with I7-49. Pier One Plus Seven Imports was near the docks on Monkey Street, one of those areas of the Shades that used to be considered Suicide to walk through, but these days, between the expanded patrols of the Watch and a Thieves’ Guild attempting to not look useless when compared to said Watch, it was really only Suicide to walk down that street from around one in the morning to three in the morning. Perhaps not coincidentally, these were the only hours when Pier One Plus Seven was closed after the determined negotiations of its newest cashier for a 22 hour work day.

Back when it had happened, Valentine had reconstructed I7-49's course by tracking down the people who were complaining about the good old days, when all zombies were shamblers, with none of this new-fangled 'fast zombie' nonsense. One old lady griped, "It's just not decent, all these zombies running marathons, these days. In the old days, zombies knew their pace. And their place. No one wants to see a zombie in running shorts."

Valentine thought about Reg Shoe and regretted it.

“Welcome to Pier One Plus Seven,” began a tinny, robotic voice as Valentine entered. “We have a variety of items that should prove useful in your decorating missions.”

Valentine’s optics flickered as he was taken off-guard by the peculiar greeting. “Er… that’s not necessary, I just wanted to stop by for a bit of a chat.”

“We’re fine with browsing, but if you’re working with those folks trying to have our boy declared not a person, you’ll have to move along,” Gertie Bathsheba Bagstock, the woman who had tried to adopt I7-49, climbed down a ladder from where she had been stocking shelves and turned to narrow her eyes at Valentine. Then she brightened, “Though a chat might go a bit better if we can direct you to one of our fine imports. We got a new shipment of malicious scaffolding in just this morning!”

“That’s quite all right, ma’am,” Valentine demurred. “And I’m not… working with them, but I’ve been asked my opinion on the matter and wanted to make sure it was an informed one.”

Mrs Bagstock crossed her arms. “ _You’ve_ been asked _your_ opinion!” she sniffed disapprovingly. “What makes _you_ an expert on the matter?”

“Er…” Valentine began, looking down at himself, as if to ask, _Do you see who you’re talking to_?

I7-49 reminded Mrs Bagstock helpfully, “I did run past him when I first arrived in the city, and he did come by to speak with us later.”

“Hmph. And one talk is a basis of an ‘expert opinion’, is it?” she sniffed.

“Well, er, that’s part of why I’m here again,” Valentine answered. “To make sure it’s not just one conversation with…” he hesitated and turned towards the synth. “Say, you prefer your name, Ivan, or your designation, I7-49?”

The synth tilted his head for a moment as… it? he? considered the question. Finally he stated, “My name.”

Valentine looked surprised. “Really? You actually got a preference?”

The synth nodded once. “Yes. ‘Ivan’ is quicker to say than ‘Eye Seven Forty-Nine’, and is therefore more efficient.”

Valentine frowned. ‘Caring about efficiency’ wasn’t exactly a personality trait. Except… maybe it was? The Institute sure as hell wasn’t all that efficient, what with their empty wings and tunnels that they didn’t even know the extent of, or using the Relay when a well-hidden elevator would have done the trick, or all the resources they spent recovering other resources...

“Right, then, Ivan,” Valentine started. “If you don’t mind, I’m just here for a quick chat with you.”

“You’ve already mentioned that, but I do not mind,” replied Ivan in his tinny voice.

“So, uhm… how you doing out here, anyway? D’you actually enjoy working out here?” Valentine asked, nodding his head around the room. Mrs Bagstock hmphed softly, but didn’t interrupt. 

“Affirmative,” answered Ivan. “I am assisting customers in creating their optimal living spaces, and Mum and Dad have acceded to my demands to work only 22 hours a day, seven days a week.”

“Seven days a week?” Valentine asked, frowning faintly. He looked back at Mrs Bagstock. “Er, does he know…” 

She shrugged and snorted with faint amusement. “He does now, though that took some explaining. _We,_ er, me an’ Peter, we just figured he was asking for a day off, and figured that with him working 22 hours a day the rest of the week, that was a fair enough thing to ask, but it turned out some fool had taught the boy there was only seven days in a week. Once we got that all sorted, we just went and gave ‘im Octeday off. Don’t get much business that day, anyway.”

Ivan frowned very faintly. “It took some time to calibrate my internal chronometer to local conditions, and I find it still requires frequent updates,” he reported.

“Yeah, uhm… that just seems to be what it’s like around here,” Valentine agreed.

“Ivan insists he’s not keeping time right, but he manages better than the old imp clock we used to have,” Mrs Bagstock explained.

“The frequency of corrections suggests a malfunction that would require attention in the Institute,” Ivan clarified, and he sounded… worried?

Valentine studied Ivan for a moment, then he asked, “You… called her ‘Mum’ earlier, didn’t you?”

Ivan inclined his head quickly in a mechanical little nod and then he smiled. It was faint and brief, and if Valentine hadn’t been watching his expression closely he might have missed it, but it was definitely a smile. “That is what Mum has asked that I call her,” he explained.

Valentine turned towards Mrs Bagstock, who kept her arms crossed and looked defiant. “What of it?” She tapped a foot. “As soon as they get to declaring him a person, me and Peter are adopting him!” She glared. “He is getting declared a person, right?”

In the face of her glare, Valentine unconsciously took half a step back before he caught himself. “Ma’am, I’m not the one who makes that decision, but… I gotta ask, is that really what you think?” It was a blunt question, but Valentine couldn’t ignore the fact that Ankh-Morporkians were a cynical group as a whole, and the sort to dig through all sorts of ridiculous loopholes to find some sort of advantage. He wouldn’t put it past the average Ankh-Morporkian to adopt a rock if they felt like they could get something out of it.

Gertie looked offended, but then, she’d probably look offended even if she’d been up to something. “Course we do! He needs a home, he’s happy here, you heard him hisself, and he’s been part of this family for several months now, ain’t you been, Ivan?”

“Yes, Mum,” Ivan replied.

She gave a sharp nod. “See? Me and Peter, we’ve been looking for someone to leave the store to once we’re gone, and now the gods have delivered!” Gertie frowned thoughtfully. “Wish I knew which one to give an offering to in order to thank, though. Maybe Anoia? I know she mostly does things stuck in drawers, but I hear she’s been taking up with Lost Causes lately…”

Valentine considered for a moment. If they’d been looking for someone to take over the store once they were gone, they probably weren’t after some obscure loophole they were hoping to leverage with Ivan. What’s more, if they were planning on leaving what they had to him, they likely thought him enough of a person to do that to, and the couple would be the ones who’d dealt with Ivan the most.

Then he looked over at Ivan. He hadn’t expressed much in the way of personality, but… it was there. It was a pretty basic personality, focused mostly around selling people decorating supplies and ensuring that he had exactly two free hours a day, but he had actually sounded worried over the time-keeping business, hadn’t he?

Whether Valentine liked it or not, the Discworld had a way of responding when belief was strong enough, and if a non-person spent enough time in the company of people who genuinely believed it to be a person, who assigned personality to it… well, sometimes it eventually became one.

Heck, Valentine was living proof of that, wasn’t he?

Nick smiled. “Well, Ivan, it was nice talking to you. I think you’ve helped to clear some things up for me.”

“Happy to be of service,” Ivan replied. “Are you certain we cannot interest you in one of our delightful imported figurines?” He gestured towards a little wire sculpture of a mouse on a large-front-wheeled velocipede. 

Valentine snorted with amusement. Actually, he could half imagine Artificial Flavours’s reaction if he were to put that thing on his desk. The thought made him smile, and so he decided, “Y’know what? I think I’ll take it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **S** : [Chapter 22](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23478406/chapters/59745109) of Going Nuclear now has a second piece of art by the excellent [Jack of Legends!](https://the-mercurial-star-o-vesper.tumblr.com/) Feel free to go check it out!
> 
>  **S** : Thunderbolt was introduced in Raising Steam, a book that’s often left out of people’s fanfiction universe headcanons. To be honest, I can’t really blame them, Pratchett wasn’t at his best by that point and several familiar characters seem to be behaving uncharacteristically at times. We include it but sort of wave bits away with various excuses (Sam “you can’t reduce an entire people to vermin” Vimes calling Deep Downers vermin and expressing pleasure at their deaths? Probably influence from the Dark. Lu Tze suddenly close friends with Ridcully and going to him for tea and gossip about History Monk business? Oh, that was time going wonky. The one thing we won’t accept is Harry King getting Duke’d; nobody in universe knows this, but the events of _You Can’t Say Fuck in a Terry Pratchett Novel_ where they ‘fixed’ reality changed that, he’s a Baron, thanks. Why miss out on Robber Baron jokes?).
> 
> Thunderbolt’s introduction went… he introduced himself to Harry King and Dick Simnel and monologued for about two paragraphs or so, talked about how he couldn’t lie because he was a Diamond Troll (something that the books had never mentioned before and we only have his own word for), explained that he would be representing both of them in their contract negotiations with each other (because hey that’s not a conflict of interest at all), and then they left without ever saying a word to him. It was all… really weird, but it’s what we have to establish the character with. So here, we stuck him in the room with someone who wasn’t just going to let him monologue for ages without interruption.
> 
>  **We love comments of all lengths, and understand the need for low-energy commenting like kudos. If you ever find yourself wanting to give us additional kudos, feel free to leave a comment of an icon or emoji of a heart!** <3


	3. Get Good, Cuck * Bring Your Parents to Court Day * The City Progresses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **We’ve created a Discord server for chatting about Discworld, Fallout, or this fic. Feel free to join us at<https://discord.gg/6QM4Egy>**

_Get Good, Cuck * Bring Your Parents to Court Day * The City Progresses_

Lady Rust was, unfortunately, not only ridiculously wealthy and politically connected but also intelligent, a rare bloom on the Rust family tree. Vetinari avoided having fears, preferring to see such concerns resolved, but he did have some disquiet over the thought that one day there could be a Patrician who was referred to as _Patricia_.

He would have to arrange to avoid such a scenario. For the good of the city.

Lady Rust was in her typical haute couture reds and blacks, with a pendant of a sword superimposed over wings, encircling three gears. Vetinari hated the fact that he knew what that symbol meant. His time, which could have been better spent in serving his city in… other capacities, was yet again being wasted over a frivolous game.

Wasn’t everything a game, though?

Happily, the pawns never realized they were pawns.

Mr. Slant, head of the Lawyer’s Guild and the lawyer who represented the position that the synth should not be considered a person, inquired of Rust, “What is your understanding of this ‘I7-49’, your ladyship?”

“It is a Generation 2 synth, a machine designed by the Institute to perform labour,” Rust said crisply. “The game’s lore is quite clear. Gen 2s aren’t capable of independent thought. They’re just like a factory loom. Instructions in, work out.”

Slant nodded. “One may observe from the dearth of fingers on some children that factory looms may be dangerous. Are these ‘Gen 2s’ also dangerous?”

“Without proper commands,” replied Lady Rust. “Why, they’re known for stripping entire cities and killing any living being who gets in their way.”

Slant continued, “How did you become such an expert on this topic, your ladyship?”

Lady Rust examined her nails coolly. “I’m the only witness you’ll see on the stands who played the actual game.” She sneered. “And these people claim that they’re ‘fans’.” She shook her head.

“Wouldn’t saying that you _merely_ played the game from which this ‘I7-49’ was extracted be an understatement, your ladyship?” Slant prompted.

“That’s true. I _dominated_ that game. My time, with loads, was 54m 36s 700ms,”1 said Lady Rust, which was presumably a boast of some sort. 

“Could it be said that you ‘owned’ that game, your ladyship?” said Slant, with clear distaste at the choice of phrasing he’d been forced to use.

Lady Rust smiled brightly, like a house fire. “As a matter of fact, I did. I commissioned the multiple-player version of the game, and insofar as ‘I7-49’ was materialized while that version of the game was running, it’s a clear port of an asset from that game, which makes it my property. It’s a piece of technology. It needs a responsible owner. Someone who will prevent it from rampaging.”

Vetinari didn’t bother with trying to understand the chaff of that sentence, instead winnowing down to the wheat.

People didn’t understand, because the understanding would break them, but there was no good. There was only bad and worse. Toiling from dawn til dusk for an employer who cared only for the bottom line, who didn’t pay enough for an employee to make rent, was, from the perspective of the employee, bad. Slavery was worse.

He gave his gavel a genteel tap, cleared his throat, and asked, “Lady Rust, if you are tendering the claim that _Aftermath_ game assets that materialized during the run time of the multiple-player game are your property, are you going to pay the city for damages caused by your scorchbeast?”

“I don’t think the scorchbeast can be stated to be mine, precisely - ” Lady Rust backtracked, her belladonna-wide eyes grown wider.

“Then I do not think I7-49 can be stated to be your property, _precisely_ ,” Vetinari concluded.

Slant looked at Vetinari to see if Vetinari was quite done. “Putting aside the matter of ownership, although, I will observe, insofar as the Institute cannot present a representative to claim I7-49, the precedent would suggest that I7-49 would be the property of the commons, to wit, the city -” Vetinari wasn’t going to say that the _last_ thing the city needed was a mechanized mannequin, but it wasn’t on his top wish list2. “ - the matter at hand is whether or not this I7-49 is enough of a person to be adopted. Lady Rust, if you have any further thoughts on the matter?”

Apparently satisfied that she wasn’t going to have to pay for damages, Lady Rust relaxed. “Of course they’re not people. They’re expendable, really. You can just mow them down. They’re like how guards used to be.”

1 [It's possible.](https://www.speedrun.com/fallout_4/run/yw8xg33y) It doesn't necessarily prove that she's an expert on synths, but Ankh-Morpork is a little short on synth experts.

2 For one thing, Vetinari already had one, and DiMA was a much more interesting model of synth to have in debt to him.

* * *

Steffen Work3 was perhaps the richest demonologist in Ankh-Morpork and generally a very rich man indeed, which was unusual for a demonologist. He’d realized, astutely, that the trick wasn’t in making deals with demons for riches. That never worked out. The only power in demonology lay in the demons. The trick was in selling demons to others and getting _their_ riches.

Work was the chief executive officer of the luridly profitable Wahoonie company, which dominated the imp-tech market. He was dressed in casually fashionable black, but he didn’t have the cape with arcane sigils or the pointy goatee or any of the trappings of a demonologist. Work had enough money that he could afford not to look the part. He was, in fact, being paid more money to be here as an expert witness.

“We call to the stand Magister Steffen Work, noted demonologist,” intoned Mr. Slant.

Work waved Mr. Slant off as he took the stand. “‘Mr.’ is fine.” ‘Magister’ was so… stuffy. It didn’t have branding power.

“What relevance does this expert witness have to the case?” asked Vetinari.

“ _Mr._ Work is the foremost expert on imp technology in Ankh-Morpork and is well-versed in the summoning of imbuing with substance of spells and other quasi-real which is, to wit, what happened with this ‘I7-49’,” said Slant.

That wasn’t quite true, but Work was hardly going to correct Slant. It had been a long time since Work could have been called the foremost expert on imp technology, but he employed all of the foremost experts. If money was commutative, the fact that he employed said experts made him expert enough. 

Vetinari gave the demonologist a dubious glance and said, “It would be customary to have you swear upon your belief system of choice.” He coughed delicately.

With a demonologist, that was always such a hanging question, wasn’t it? Work smiled and said, “Your lordship, I should be delighted to swear upon the almighty dollar that I represent that my testimony is accurate and true to the best of my knowledge.”

“...yes, I suppose I should accept that,” granted Vetinari. “Mr. Slant, you may proceed with questioning your witness.”

Mr. Slant gave a fractional nod, and he questioned, “Mr. Work, if you could explain the summoning of imps?”

Summoning and binding cheap imps that evaporated in a year had been the big hit that drove Work’s career. Cheap, evaporating imps had built-in planned obsolescence. They forced the consumer to buy another of the product. Work had even been able to brand this as a plus, and consumers chased after his latest releases, making having an up-to-date Wahoonie imp-tech device a point of fashion and style. The Gooseberry products, which had been his major competitor, lasted longer, and their profit margins suffered because they weren’t constantly moving product if the already-existing products weren’t failing. 

“The summoning details are quite technical,” which was to say that Work did not care to explain trade secrets to a public audience, “but in short, you infuse magical energy into a set of algorithmic instructions. Imps are just a sort of living spell.”

That wasn’t true for all values of imps, but it was true of the imps that Wahoonie sold.

Mr. Slant nodded. “They’re just a set of instructions. They’re not people.”

“Oh, hellfires, no,” said Work, laughing easily. “They’re no more people than a fireball or teleport.”

There were some loonies who had started an Imp Liberation League, or ILL. They were a mere nuisance, but Work had no desire to see this ‘I7-49’ declared a person, because the sorts of people who wasted their time on the Imp Liberation League would only take it as encouragement.

“Their sets of instructions are certainly more complicated than a fireball, which really only has the instructions ‘radiate from a point and set everything on fire’, and they can model quite complex behaviour, but that’s only due to the tireless spell-scripting efforts of the demonologists at Wahoonie.”

Quite literally tireless in many cases, and Work didn’t believe in ‘paying overtime’, considering it to be a mythical beast much like a virgin succubus.

Slant then prompted, “And imps are a sort of summoning?”

“Summoning, or the term conjuring may be used, although conjuring really only applies if one has an assistant in a spangly outfit. The art of imbuing energy into a spell and giving it a semi-permanent form. Doves are a classic example of summoning, as are rabbits from hats,” Work explained.

“This ‘I7-49’... it would count as a summons?” said Slant.

Work smiled. “Absolutely. It was made out of and given form by magic.”

“Is there any reason to believe this ‘I7-49’ could have any more personhood than an imp?” 

“None whatsoever,” said Work confidently, “This ‘I7-49’ is also just a set of instructions… and a rather shallowly coded set of instructions, at that.”

“Thank you, Mr. Work,” said Slant. He looked to the Patrician. “This ends my examination.”

Vetinari directed, “Mr. Thunderbolt, you may have the witness.”

Mr. Slant took his seat, and Mr. Thunderbolt stood. Trolls were of moderate interest to Work. They didn’t have human brains. They ran on silicon, and if sufficiently chilled, they could be quite excellent mathematicians. Work sometimes wondered if something could be done with devices that ran on supercooled silicon, instead of imps, but no… Work didn’t see that as a technology that could ever go anywhere.

Ankh-Morpork summers were too hot and muggy.

Mr. Thunderbolt asked, “Mr. Work, you are an expert on imps, which are a mere small subset of the possibilities that summoning has to offer, is that so?”

“Yes,” Work agreed, “People have a finite capacity of brainpower to make well thought out decisions. A minute more a day using brainpower to decide what to summon, as opposed to simply summoning an imp every time, is less brainpower I would have to use to think about my company.”

That was why he always wore the same casually fashionable black outfit every day. Less decision fatigue.

“So you don’t have much experience with non-imp summons?” Mr. Thunderbolt stated carefully, with that rich, rolling voice.

There was a trap. Work tried to deflect, “I have enough experience to know they’re unreliable and not worth the time. I’d tell you to find a demonologist with more experience in non-imp summons, but I’m afraid you’d have to go to one of the Dungeon Dimensions or a level of the Hells to find him. That’s where they all end up.”

“Then if you’d tell us about the Rite of AshkEnte?” Mr. Thunderbolt prompted.

Work rolled his eyes. The Rite of AshkEnte of was wizard nonsense, and maybe some witches bothered with it. “It’s a ceremony to summon Death. To ask him questions. It’s hard on the candle budget.”

“Is a Death a person?” asked Mr. Thunderbolt.

“Death’s an anthropomorphic personification,” Work snapped.

“So you can summon entities that can be considered people?” Thunderbolt prodded.

“I don’t recommend it,” Work said coolly.

“But it can be done. Acknowledged,” said Thunderbolt, with an ounce of satisfaction.

Teenage demonologists wouldn’t put nearly as much effort into summoning succubi if they were going to get something they’d have to program themselves.

Thunderbolt paced, hands behind his back. “And the icono-game that produced _Ivan_ has produced people, such as - ”

“In a different context,” Work said irritably, interrupting. There was _Aftermath_ , which had produced some vaguely annoying people when the Watch Commander played it, and then there was the portable imp-tech game that was played on Imp-Boys, which had been shut down over a bat-dragon. ‘I7-49’ came from the second game.

Thunderbolt continued, unperturbed, “ - such as the variant ‘ghoul’ John Hancock, who may by Ankh-Morpork standards be understood to possess personhood in accordance with unnatural law.”

Work hadn’t paid enough attention to any of that.

“Conjecture,” said Vetinari, crisp as a knife of ice. “Mr. Thunderbolt, if you are done with questioning the witness - “

Thunderbolt course-corrected. “Mr. Work, are there not so-called ‘wild’ imps, which do not dissipate?”

Work sighed. “Unfortunately.”

“How do these wild imps come about?”

“If a sloppy demonologist puts too much energy into a spell, it can give the imp a sort of permanence, and it may develop erratic emergent behaviour,” Work admitted. He hated wild imps. They undermined everything Wahoonie was attempting to accomplish. Wild imps didn’t dissipate, which meant that when consumers hacked a wild imp into a Wahoonie product, the product would work indefinitely, without need for a fashionable replacement. Wild imps were infinitely reprogrammable, which meant they were adaptable to new situations, and he couldn’t sell targeted upgrades. As such, Wahoonie had focused on making their products not cross-compatible with wild imps.

“Is that the only way wild imps come about?”

Begrudgingly, Work conceded, “There have been unsubstantiated reports of wild imps breeding on our material plane. I wouldn’t trust any product made with such nonstandardized imps.”

Some engineers, like the famous Dick Simnel, would catch and train their own wild imps, instead of buying preprogrammed imps, which ate into market share. Wahoonie’s marketing department worked nonstop trying to characterize wild imps as unreliable to deter that sort of activity. Despite that, smuggled wild imps were a lucrative trade, particularly in lawless towns like Zemphis. Wahoonie was trying to incentivize some sort of rule of law that would crack down on imp smuggling, but it was slow going, getting Wahoonie’s hooks into the small and incompetent Zemphis Watch.

“Even imps, which are your area of expertise, may, by your own admission, develop erratic emergent behaviour, perhaps even breeding. Additionally, you acknowledge that it is possible to summon entities which may be construed as persons. What makes you so sure, Mr. Work, that Ivan is not a person?”

What made him so sure was chiefly that he had been paid to be sure of that and, secondly, that it was convenient for him, personally. Work was sure that summoned imps, the sort that Wahoonie bound into imp-devices by the hundreds daily, were not people. He couldn’t actually be sure about wild imps, if he was truly honest, and that scared him. Vetinari was notoriously anti-slavery. The man had asked for abolition for a _hat_. If wild imps were permanent and erratic on account of sloppy summoning imbuing them with too much magic, they might be people, and if they might be people, then Vetinari might demand abolition of all imps with all the clumsiness and ignorance of a politician, and then were would companies like Wahoonie be? No. It was better for Work that all imps remain conveniently nonpeople. Damn and blast whatever twits like the Imp Liberation League said.

Work shrugged. “Its behaviour just doesn’t seem that emergent. It’s still just a complex coded set of instructions.”

“You are an expert on imps, Mr. Work,” Thunderbolt reminded. “What makes you so sure you’re qualified to speak on a non-imp summoned entity such as Ivan?”

“Because I’m still here,” said Work, charming, in a way. “You find me a demonologist who goes out of his way to summon and _bind_ sapient entities, and you’ll have a demonologist who won’t be here tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Mr. Work.”

3 Steppenwolf, although sounding similar, was a name that would have connotated something entirely different in a fantasy setting.

* * *

The Bagstocks were brought to the stand as a group and were asked who they wished to swear to. There was a quick, whispered conversation between them, but it was difficult to hear what was being said until Gertie Bathsheba Bagstock crossed her arms and declared, “Well, I ain’t swearing by Io, was his clerk that called my boy an abomination!”

Peter Willie Bagstock sighed. “But we’ve _always_ sworn by Io!”

“Well, this time, we’re swearin’ by… what’s that new one, all about glowin’... Atom! None of his folks never did us wrong!” declared Gertie. Valentine, from where he watched, covered his face with his good hand and sighed.

“Paper says they tried to blow up the city,” Peter pointed out.

“Well, what have they done since?” Gertie asked, before Vetinari cleared his throat.

Thunderbolt, catching the hint, spoke over the couple’s argument and stated, “Sirs. Madam. You agree to tell the truth as you understand it, and if not, be struck down by a divine agency to be determined at a later time, correct?”

Peter blinked. “Sure, that sounds all right.”

“Very well. Now you will inform the court how you have come to know Ivan,” Thunderbolt prompted.

“Some months back he came running turnwise down Monkey Street and ran smack into me while I was out sweeping the step,” explained Peter. “Knocked us both over. Of course, I asked him where he got off, slamming into me like that, when he starts babbling about folks getting eaten and someone askin’ for his money and someone else yelling about licenses and giant stone people.” Peter hesitated and glanced at Thunderbolt a bit nervously. “You’ll have to pardon that, he was new in town then. Anyway, by that point-”

Gertie interrupted Peter and explained, “By that point I had come out to see the fuss and could tell that the poor lad was clearly scared outta his wits, so I asked him to come in while we sorted it all out. We got to talking, I might have mentioned I could use another hand around the shop-”

Peter snorted. “Without warning me, I might add.”

Gertie glared at him and finished, “Anyway, one thing led to another, and we asked him to stick around and help out.”

“So you would say that you’ve probably had more interactions with Ivan than anyone else?” Thunderbolt asked.

“Sure have!” declared Peter.

“And, based on your interactions, you believe that Ivan is a person?” prompted Thunderbolt.

“No doubt in my mind!” declared Gertie.

“He’s like the son we always wanted,” added Peter.

“Hey!” shouted Norbert Everardus Bagstock, their son, who’d been sitting right next to them this whole time.

“Yeah! Not like the one we got!” added Gertie.

Norbert rolled his eyes and slumped back in his seat.

Thunderbolt turned his attention to Norbert. “And do you agree with your parents’ assessment?”

“Huh? Yeah, obviously,” Norbert shrugged. “Like, he’s weird and all. And he’s like, simple, and smart with numbers all at once. Mostly all he cares about is working, and never working more than 22 hours a day and seven days a week, and being helpful, and learning decorating and recommending decorations. But, y’know, lots of people are simple and only interested in weird things, and being simple and smart with numbers isn’t a crime.”

“So it does not concern you that your parents want to adopt him?” asked Thunderbolt.

“Pfffft,” Norbert replied, waving off the question. “Could do with less of that ‘son they always wanted’ stuff, but really, they just say that ‘cos I didn’t want to run the store. Ivan does, and with him as a brother, that means I get to join up with the merchant crew I been wanting to. Get a little experience, maybe one day buy a ship of my own, y’know?” He paused. “Be nice to have a brother.” He glared at his parents. “Even if he already is the favorite.”

“Er. Thank you for clarifying,” Thunderbolt said carefully before switching subjects. “Back to what you said before, you were saying he has an actual interest in… home decorations?” asked Thunderbolt.

“Not just homes, but yeah,” agreed Norbert. “S’what he spends most of his day off on. I showed him how to check books from the public section of the University library, just so he can read up on it.”

“Interesting, in so far that internal decorations is not, according to my notes, a function of the Institute.” Thunderbolt inclined his head. “Thank you, Norbert.” He turned towards Slant. “Your witnesses.”

* * *

Finally, Ivan himself took the stand. He had fidgeted through most of the court proceedings, and once or twice he had tried to stand only to be pulled back to his seat by Gertie, who would then lean over and whisper something. Finally, she gave him a small rag, which he used to wipe the back of the seat in front of him to a spotless sheen. 

It was probably that fidgeting, more than anything else, that convinced Valentine he had made the right call. If Ivan didn’t have thoughts of his own, how could he get nervous? He was pretty sure the kid wasn’t bored; the Bagstocks had mentioned that sometimes his hours or days off were spent just staring at a wall (sounded somewhat familiar, that). But whether the fidgeting came from boredom or nervousness, that was still evidence that the boy was a person.

Ivan had sworn by Atom, following the example of his would-be adoptive parents. Valentine had sighed at that. Then Thunderbolt had begun his examination. The kid absently wiped the wooden rail in front of him as he answered, although Thunderbolt had a problem keeping Ivan on topic, because he kept veering off to make recommendations on what color paint they should consider for the walls, and where in the room one of Pier Seven Plus One’s fish-shaped reclaimed wood cabinets direct from Nothingfjord would maximize its visual appeal.

Thunderbolt rubbed the bridge of his nose. “To clarify, you do understand what we are here to determine today?” It wasn’t phrased as a question, but there was an obvious, audible question mark on at the end.

“Correct,” agreed Ivan.

Ivan and Thunderbolt looked at each other for a moment. Finally, Thunderbolt prompted, “And that is?”

“To determine whether I am a person, so that I can be adopted under civil law and then join the Merchants’ Guild,” explained Ivan.

“And do you consider yourself to be a person, Ivan?” asked Thunderbolt.

Ivan paused in his wiping down of the rail and looked around the room. His gaze settled on Lady Rust’s pin for a moment, and then he looked around again. He hesitated a little longer. “There are no representatives from the Institute present,” he observed.

Thunderbolt frowned, faintly confused. “The Institute is a fictional organization.”

“You will not report my answer to the SRB?” he asked, tinny voice slightly higher than normal.

“I will not,” Thunderbolt assured. Valentine wondered if Thunderbolt even knew what the SRB was.

Ivan paused a moment longer, then asked, “Is human agent designated ‘Deacon’ available?” That seemed an odd question, but Valentine recalled that according to DiMA, Ivan’s little protest had been set off by Deacon trying to organize the synths back in the game.

Thunderbolt’s frown deepened. No doubt he kept up with the news, and he possibly would have read up on Deacon in familiarizing himself with the case. “I believe he wasn’t available,” Thunderbolt replied, turning his frown, now, on Vetinari. Ah. Looks like Thunderbolt had not only read up on him, he’d been wondering some of the same things that Valentine, Vimes, and DiMA had been wondering with regards to the too-convenient timing of Deacon’s ‘diplomatic mission’.

Vetinari returned the part-diamond troll’s gaze cooly, and agreed, “That is correct.” He looked at Ivan. “You can answer the question.”

Ivan didn’t really frown. Unlike the prototypes, Valentine and DiMA, standard Gen 2’s facial structure was stiffer and less expressive. Instead, he just nodded and looked at his hands. “I believe that I am a person.” He looked up, his amber optics brightening a fraction. “Please do not report me for reclamation!”

“I can say, confidently, that no one will report you to this… SRB for reclamation,” Thunderbolt reassured. “But one more thing, if you will. Are you capable of playing any kind of music?”

Ivan tilted his head. “This is important to whether I am a person?”

“It is not, by itself, the determining factor, however, current legal precedent holds that it can assist in reinforcing the legal status of personhood,” explained Thunderbolt. “Granted, it is a recent precedent, going back to only about a year ago…”

Vetinari cleared his throat, and Thunderbolt concluded with, “It may be useful.”

Ivan straightened his head. “I can play music.”

“Are you in a position to demonstrate?” Thunderbolt asked.

Ivan opened his mouth, but rather than an answer in Ivan’s own voice, words sung in voices not at all like his own, accompanied with instruments, issued forth. “Siiiiiiixty minute man! Siiiiiixty minute man! Look a here girls, I’m telling you now, they call me ‘Lovin’ Dan,’ I rock ‘em, roll ‘em all night long-”

“That will be quite enough, Ivan,” Vetinari interrupted, eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly and lips pulled back just slightly in what hinted at a grimace. 

Valentine could barely contain a snort of amusement, and he was pretty sure that the reason Vimes had covered his mouth so quickly hadn’t been to contain a cough. 

* * *

Vetinari had no particular desire to get entangled with the byzantine churches of Ankh-Morpork and its outlying territories. If the Temple of Blind Io wouldn’t allow an adoption, citizens could slide down the street to Offler or Hoki or… whoever. They had options. Vetinari was partial to Saponaria. Only this case wasn’t only about that.

Church concerns aside, Vetinari had still arranged for that imaginary friend of Vimes’s, that ‘ _Deacon,_ ’ to be away during the proceedings, though Vetinari had other reasons to have Deacon out of his city. Deacon might have gotten emotional about the matter, and his reactions might have egged on Vimes’s natural sense of outrage. 

Chrysoprase, the most notable of the old troll gang lords who’d made the jump from mobster to property speculator, had seen a sideways way of getting rid of a few of his more petty enemies without getting his smooth, tumbled-stone hands dirty. Chrysoprase hated troll drugs these days, for all that he had profited from them in the past, because trolls who wasted all their money on recreational substances didn’t buy condos in the suburbs. Chrysoprase wanted to see the small-time pushers go down, for what he saw as their disrespect against him and because it was a performative act to impress the Diamond King. If Ivan was a person, then Big Marble went down for assault, battery, possibly even manslaughter like a little pebble.

Of course, Vetinari couldn’t be seen to cave to Chrysoprase. The Guilds would be upon him like bears on a beehive if he showed weakness. So Vetinari had arranged matters such that Slant, the beginning and the end of law in Ankh-Morpork, had represented the position that Ivan was not a person, so that, whatever the outcome, no one could claim that Vetinari was caving to Chrysoprase. 

Only this case wasn’t only about Chrysoprase’s anti-drug gestures and his grasping manipulations.

What was or was not a citizen of this city was ultimately meaningless, where dogs could be called as witnesses. The rights of man? There was One Man, with One Vote. Vetinari had once declared a hat to be a person. But this wasn’t all about that. 

Vetinari had already decided the outcome before the case ever started. It was a show to put the right thoughts in the right heads. He tapped his gavel. “The court finds that Ivan is endowed with sufficient personhood to proceed with being adopted by Mr. and Mrs. Bagstock should all entities elect to proceed. Adjourned.”

And so the power of the churches was weakened a little. There was now a criminal case against Big Marble and associates. Those drug pushers would be off the street. Chrysoprase would think he’d gotten his way. Thunderbolt would think he was clever. The Diamond King would be pleased. Slant wouldn’t be bothered; he had his money either way. Vimes’s too-touchy sense of justice would be satisfied. And a little family would be a little larger.

The city progressed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **S:** Work’s comment about the candle budget always makes me think of that classic dril tweet:
> 
> **S** : A and I have spent a lot of time discussing that scene in Snuff where Tears of the Mushroom gains support for the goblins’ plight through her performance, and while that was a very lovely scene, it plays into this… trope where, in order for a some underclass’s personhood to be fully accepted, they have to first demonstrate Worth in a way that isn’t simply above average, isn’t simply good, but extraordinary. I don’t necessarily even see that trope as unrealistic, because… people can be shitty, and hell, sometimes humans have a hard enough time acknowledging the personhood of other humans without some sort of extra motivation, but we just wanted a small acknowledgement that it shouldn’t _need_ something like that to accept a person as a person.
> 
> (Also, we were both enraptured with the idea of someone asking Ivan if he could play music, and “Sixty Minute Man” just starts up like he was a radio or something…)
> 
> **We love comments of all lengths, and understand the need for low-energy commenting like kudos. If you ever find yourself wanting to give us additional kudos, feel free to leave a comment of an icon or emoji of a heart!** <3


	4. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **We’ve created a Discord server for chatting about Discworld, Fallout, or this fic. Feel free to join us at<https://discord.gg/6QM4Egy>**

_Epilogue_

A week or so after the end of the trial, Valentine returned to the Vimes residence, where he was met at the door by Codsworth, who informed him that Mister Deacon was visiting with Lady Sybil and Mister Vimes in the Dark Slate Blue Den, and that he’d be rejoining them shortly as soon as he’d fetched some refreshments. Since one of the things that Valentine had done while on duty earlier that evening was escort Deacon to the Palace, he wasn’t particularly surprised to hear that Deacon dropped by, although he was, perhaps, relieved to know that Deacon had made it through his meeting with the Patrician.

He entered the Dark Slate Blue Den to find Deacon in the process of handing off a collection of gifts to Sybil and Vimes. From the looks of things, Deacon had come straight over from Palace; he hadn’t even stopped to shave the red beard he’d grown while away. When Sybil noticed Valentine enter, she graced him with a smile that lit the room. “Nick! Deacon’s returned from his trip to Ephebe!” She held up a gimballed ink pot, turning the base to demonstrate how the pot itself did not tilt. “Isn’t it delightful? This way, I needn’t worry about the ink being spilled if any dragons are snuffling about the writing desk. Oh, and he’s brought you a bottle of retsina!”

Deacon smiled innocently as Valentine glared at him. He’d managed to avoid the retsina earlier that evening, but now that Deacon had gone and gotten Sybil involved, Valentine would likely have to accept it.

“Uh, thanks,” Valentine said, tone neutral. “So what’d you stick Sam with?”

“Art book,” Deacon answered cheerfully, still looking entirely too innocent. Valentine wasn’t even sure how he managed that. “Nice, large prints of some of their most famed works!”

Judging from Vimes’s reddened face, Valentine could guess just what kind of works those were. Vimes held the book clamped closed under one arm. Sybil, however, observed, “It looks to be quite a well put together book. I’ll make sure it’s added to the library.”

Codsworth swept in with a tray that contained several bottles of Cheery Cola, along with a few glasses of ice. While Codsworth handed Sybil a glass of the soda, Deacon just grabbed one of the bottles and twisted off the cap, flopping down on one of the couches as he did. “So. What’s this I hear about you people putting Ivan Bagstock’s _personhood_ on trial while I was halfway across the Circle Sea?” he asked, tone still casual but gaining a slightly sharper edge to it.

Vimes hmphed. “It wasn’t up to me, or I’d have skipped the whole mess. The Bagstocks wanted to adopt the poor sod, but his parish clerk said he was an abomination.” He snorted. “Like _that’s_ ever stopped this city. That tossed things over to City Law, and a bunch of idiots who felt like they should have a say got involved.” 

“Oh, you mean, like Nick?” asked Deacon brightly, inviting dark glares from both Vimes and Sybil.

“I didn’t ask to get involved,” Valentine grumbled. “They called me in on account of my being another Gen 2 synth.”

“Sure! A distantly related prototype!” Deacon agreed. “Hey, I got an idea! Since humans are all basically just apes, why don’t we call in another type of ape to testify on humanity’s personness! Only not the Librarian, he actually deals with us on a regular basis, might bias him too much. Maybe we can find some ape on, I dunno, a random jungle island or something… Say, how often did you actually deal with standard Gen 2s before you hooked up with Whispers?”

“I know, I know!” protested Valentine, growing irritated with the way Deacon was making a point that Valentine already agreed with. “Like I said, it wasn’t my idea. Besides, I seem to recall it was far from a settled question in the Railroad, and you seemed all right with killing the Gen 2s.”

“Barely, but yeah,” Deacon admitted before taking a swig of his cola. “I was also okay with killing raiders, and I _thought_ they were real people, too.” He thought for a moment, then brightened. “Oh, hey, there’s this ass-” he shot a glance at Sybil and finished, “-sociate in the Thieves’ Guild, name’s Razor. Used to be a raider that the game had popped into reality. Maybe we should be dragging her into court…”

Sybil sighed. “Mister Deacon, your point is well-made, but we aren’t the ones who needed convincing,” Valentine looked down at his boots, embarrassed, as Sybil said that, “and at any rate, the matter’s already settled. Perhaps it shouldn’t have been what it was, but thankfully, the Patrician did rule justly.”

Deacon snorted. “Well that’s a lucky break, I guess,” he muttered. Valentine noticed a small, grim smile from Vimes in reaction to Deacon’s cynicism concerning Vetinari’s supposed sense of justice.

“I don’t know if this helps, Deacon, but we had thought the timing… suspicious ourselves,” Vimes offered before taking a sip of his own cola. He looked around at the others. “I suspect he had his ruling planned from the start, so I’m not sure why he sent you away. Maybe worried about disruptions to the court proceeding?”

“Disruptions? From me?” Deacon asked, all wide-eyed innocence behind his round sunglasses. 

“Don’t know why he’d expect that,” Vimes finished, smirking at Deacon. “But at any rate, that mess is over. The lad’s safe and back to… selling home goods, or whatever makes his little synthetic heart happy.”

“He did ask about you,” Valentine offered. “During the case, I mean.”

Deacon blinked. “Yeah? Why’d he do that?”

“See, that’s what I asked him once it was over,” Valentine explained. “Seems he remembered you from… whatever you were up to when we were invading the Institute in the game. Poor kid was still worried about the SRB, but figured if you were there, it was safe to admit he thought he was a person. Said he didn’t think you’d let him say something like that if someone there was gonna turn him in.”

“He… trusted _me_ to keep him safe?” Deacon asked in amazement. Then he shook his head. “I’m going to have to go check up on him. Disabuse him of this notion that I’m someone to be trusted, especially over something like that.”

“How do you plan to do that?” Vimes asked, eyes narrowed.

Deacon rubbed his beard thoughtfully. “I’ll have to check, but I doubt the Thieves’ Guild has hit quota on shoplifting yet…”

Valentine rolled his optics. “I’m sure Ivan’ll be thrilled to see you, anyway.”

Deacon sighed. “Yeah. The poor kid has no sense at all.” He pulled out a newspaper from… somewhere and looked it over, muttering. “Y’know, I bet this business loosened the adoption laws a bit…”

“So since you’re just lounging on my sofa, anyway,” Vimes began, “care for a few hands of poker?”

Deacon grinned and straightened up. “You’d better believe I would, Whispers!” He paused. “Although just a couple, there’s something I have to take care of later on.”4

4 Valentine would not find out until later, thanks to a report by Constable Pediment the gargoyle, that whatever Deacon needed to take care of would involve climbing onto the dome of the Small Gods temple. Dorfl said he planned to carefully not mention the incident at all around Deacon, because being on the dome of the Small Gods temple wasn’t against the law and sometimes you just didn’t want to know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **S** : Those following along as this has been getting posted may have noticed that we adjusted the total number of chapters. I just sort of felt this flowed a bit better with "so the City Progresses" as the last line of the fic-proper, and with the time jump and everything else, the follow-up as its own separate thing. 
> 
> Deacon, I acknowledge, is _really_ pissy here, but in fairness, he had spent the last week or so unable to read or write, finally got back and got that fixed, met with the Patrician and _thought_ he finally got a handle on why Vetinari had sent _him_ , of all people, to Ephebe (had to be that 'no true Ankh-Morporkian' thing with the marbles, right?), and then he finds out there's been a whole _Synth personhood trial_ going on at home that he knew nothing about, so he's in a Mood.
> 
> (Meanwhile, Vetinari was less concerned about what Deacon might pull during that whole business and more concerned about how Deacon might set Vimes off... Patrician here just not trusting the influence Vimes's new imaginary friends are having on him...)
> 
>  **S** : Anyway, that's it for this fic. If all goes as planned, you should see the start of the next fic, "Un/Affected", go up. That'll be our eighth multi-chapter fic in the series... Hmm. Eight. 
> 
> ;) 
> 
> **We love comments of all lengths, and understand the need for low-energy commenting like kudos. If you ever find yourself wanting to give us additional kudos, feel free to leave a comment of an icon or emoji of a heart!** <3


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